


Her Pet

by out_there



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-07-15
Updated: 2005-07-15
Packaged: 2017-10-07 09:08:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/63593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/out_there/pseuds/out_there
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She wasn't lying when she said she wanted to keep him as a pet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Her Pet

**Author's Note:**

> Set during S5. Thanks to [](http://mireille719.livejournal.com/profile)[**mireille719**](http://mireille719.livejournal.com/) for betaing. Written for [](http://laylee.livejournal.com/profile)[**laylee**](http://laylee.livejournal.com/), who requested Spike/Illyria with the line, "Come on, Luv, give it up."

He grins, stretching his split lip over sharp teeth. Illyria watches him lick at the small stream of blood creeping down his chin. He wipes the rest of it away, saying, "Let's try that again."

He knows she'll win -- she always wins -- and yet, he still wants to fight. It's amusing. Endearing, almost. She wasn't lying when she said she wanted to keep him as a pet. He makes for an interesting distraction, so full of ego and fire.

Not Fire, she mentally corrects. He is nothing like Fire, with her bold auburn curls and ember-dark eyes. For a moment, Illyria mourns Fire, missing the hot taste of her laugh; missing the way she would play with those lesser creatures, stroking them until they reddened and charred, until their skin split and burst with a sweet sizzle.

This one is barely a shadow of Fire, but when Illyria tilts her head and watches his pale mind think, she can almost see the flames licking at his flesh.

"Come on, luv, give it up." He grins sharply, causing another trickle of blood.

This demonic half-breed, a bastard child of mortals and the weakest of demons, believes himself invulnerable. In this tiny white room, she has made him bleed so many times. Yet he keeps asking for more, eyes glinting as if this time, in this next precious moment, he will win. It is... entertaining. And because he is a pleasing toy, she treats him gently, careful not to break him.

He springs at her, the vampire clear in his face. She is feeling generous, so she allows him a moment before she reacts. He grins, supposing that he's surprised her, and punches at her side, aiming low. If she were still Fred, that blow would have bruised her kidney, would possibly have cause enough internal bleeding to be fatal.

Because she is Illyria, God-King of this world and others, the blow just makes her smirk as she reaches up and uses his momentum against him. With a small step, she is behind him, twisting his arm up his back. Forcing it higher, she settles her other hand on his shoulder, holding him down.

He is pinned, trapped, and she pushes his arm up until the joints creak. It's music, of a sort. Music she used to love to hear. Music she used to make with the grinding of bones, the wet tear of muscle, the low swoon of some being's last breath.

She could make that music now, could push and snap, could force his ragged gasps to become screams that know no words. She forces his wrist higher still, and his body follows her, bending under her will.

He's taut, straining backwards. As tight as a bow, as the entrails on a lute, and she could pluck him now and make him sing.

She pauses, considering it. She misses the music of her court; misses the way they used to dance, wild and primal, graceful as a turbulent river. She could turn him into music, but no one would dance with her.

Shuddering under her hands, his breaths come quicker and she can almost taste the curses forming on his lips. He carries that non-scent of vampire, but she can also smell the blood and determination. She can't smell his fear, but that could be due to the demon inside him. Or it could be because he's too much of a fool to fear her. She doesn't really care which.

She jerks his wrist higher and he bends back until his shoulders are almost level with hers. Leaning closer to him, she sniffs deeply, searching for the scent of pain.

Ages ago, she feasted on pain and joy and envy. It would surround her, soaking into her armour, seeping into her skin. Now, she can't even smell it.

Illyria snakes her tongue against his skin, uselessly hoping that this pathetic vessel can at least taste pain. She licks again, and again; the tension bleeds out of him in a hiss as he slides into his human face.

Moving her mouth up his neck, she suckles at the skin, but can taste nothing. Just his blood and the salt of his sweat. It's nothing like that hot-sharp-sweet taste of pain.

Out of frustration, she bites down hard, lightly breaking the skin. He lets out a low groan, his knees buckling slightly and she pushes him away. After a few staggering steps, he rights himself. His tight clothing does nothing to hide his obvious arousal.

"You liked that."

"Vampire, remember, pet?" He's panting slightly, which is ridiculous for something that doesn't need to breathe. As he speaks, his fingers trace over the mark of her teeth, testing the edges of the wound. "Pain, violence, biting at the neck? Big turn-ons."

"You like being dominated?" Again, she considers taking him to her bed. Riding him until he's sweaty and tame. He could be... fun.

"Not really. I mean, there was that one time..." He shrugs. "It's a vampire thing. Blood, necks, biting. Bound to get a guy riled up."

"Shall we continue?" she asks, watching him stretch his arm carefully. "Or have you had enough?"

"Do your worst, luv." He jumps at her again but she turns as the door opens, revealing Wesley. Without looking behind her, she stretches out a fist, catching the vampire in the chest, pushing him down with enough force to knock him out.

Wesley gives the prone body a long look. "Did you injure him?"

"He's merely unconscious."

"Ah." Wesley blinks again, and then his attention is on her, all sharp eyes and mixed-up thoughts. "I wanted your help translating something."

"Very well," she replies, neatly stepping over the drops of blood as she walks towards Wesley. He turns, without another word, and heads back to his office.

As she follows him upstairs, she thinks that she would not keep Wesley in this manner. She shies away from where that thought leads her, but she knows that he would never be her pet. And she's almost certain that is how she wants it.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback can be left here or on [Livejournal](http://out-there.livejournal.com/707840.html?mode=reply).


End file.
